From The Beginning, She Was Impossible
by fishfingersandsouffles
Summary: Whoufflé AU in which the Doctor, having been separated from the Ponds, seeks solace from his loss in his dreams and becomes fixated on the impossible girl who features in them. Takes place after "The Angels Take Manhattan" and disregards the events of "Asylum of the Daleks." Inspired by the film "Ruby Sparks."
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Hello! This is my first multi-chap fan fiction, so I do hope that if you continue to read this story, you will forgive the inevitable gaps between my updates. While I would like to be able to promise weekly updates, I'm afraid that that isn't possible. I will do my best to post frequently, and promise that I will finish the story, but the intervals between each update are likely to be irregular. As stated in the summary, this is a Whouffle fic inspired by the film "Ruby Sparks," but you can certainly read this without having seen the film. Enjoy! :)_

**_I do not own "Doctor Who," "Ruby Sparks," or any characters, themes, plots, or dialogue recognizable from either._**

**...**

He woke abruptly from a dream that had ended too soon. His eyes flew open and he clutched the bed sheets around him with desperation as he emitted a noise that might have been a gasp. Or perhaps it was the release of a breath he hadn't known he had been holding. He shivered at the sensation of warm blood pumping through the hearts that had long since gone cold and still. But he felt them now, beating thunderously in his chest and at a rate he hadn't known was possible. Energy pulsed through him as it hadn't done in years and he scrambled out of his bed ungracefully and urgently to get to his feet. Staying in bed would have been futile. He needed to think, and he was no good at thinking while still. He paced along the endless TARDIS corridors, confusion riddling every fiber of his being, condemning it to perpetually long for the answer to a mystery he feared would remain unsolved.

The TARDIS hummed in approval; the Doctor was alive again.

He had become reclusive upon losing the Ponds. He rarely ventured out of the TARDIS, only doing so very infrequently in a desperate attempt to hold on to the little sanity he had left, and spent centuries not only pitying himself for his loss, but blaming himself for it. He had, once again, lost his family, and had in the process also lost his will to help others. And how could he, he reasoned, when he was beyond even helping himself? And so, with nowhere to go and no one to go to, he confined himself to his bedroom in his blue box, and dust accumulated on the TARDIS's console.

He had never slept much until then, but it had since become the only thing he ever did, as sleeping was the best way to escape reality. But this simple dream, the one he'd just woken up from, had managed to not only get him out of bed, but dressed as well, bow tie and braces and all, as if being properly groomed would aid him in his attempts of reflecting upon and deciphering his dream.

_A brunette stood before the TARDIS, it seemingly towering over her due to how small her frame was. Her hand moved slowly over its worn wooden exterior, fingers trailing after her palm and eventually, upon reaching the door handle, wrapping around it. She gave it a small tug – and then a small groan – when despite the action the door remained closed. With a sigh, the arm fell to her side, the hand clenched in a fist, which she then after a few moments hesitation raised again to rap against the door. She waited for an answer that never came. She seemed familiar with the TARDIS, a notion that rather perturbed the Doctor, as he had not the faintest idea who she could be. He searched his past for a time he might have known her, a time he might have seen that same back as it walked away from him – as they all inevitably did – but came up with nothing. And so he opened his mouth, preparing himself to ask her if she needed help with something, when his tongue betrayed him and he cleared his throat instead._

_She turned towards him immediately, the rapidity of the action curling a few tendrils of hair into her face as it whipped around with her. They obscured his view of her for a moment, but when her hand reached up and tucked them behind her ears, any doubt he had about the possibility of having known her vanished instantly. He would have had to be a damned fool to forget the likes of her. Yet when her large brown eyes locked on his, they smiled with familiarity and recognition._

_The words he had initially intended to speak finally made it out of his mouth, though he had made no further effort to speak them. "Do you need help?" he heard himself say, but the manner in which he did so surprised him. It rang not like a genuine offer in his ears, but mockery._

_She narrowed her eyes at him, yet the appearance of dimples on her cheeks wavered as she tried to suppress a smile. "I wouldn't if you would give me a key. I think I ought to have one, it would spare me from having to wait around for you all the time."_

_"I've never met you before! Who are you?" He tried to say, but the words refused to be articulated. And yet he still received an answer… from himself, after he scoffed and snapped his fingers to open the time machine's doors. "I'll have you know, Clara Oswald, that I just spent the past two hours fixing that rattling noise in the Maitland's washing machine, waiting for you to make an appearance."_

_Before he had the chance to try to say that he had no idea who the Maitlands were, or who she was, for that matter, she responded. "You were in the house? But how? You didn't knock!"_

_"You're right, I didn't. I've never been here before." He tried to say, but the words were not forthcoming. Instead he felt himself shrug as he walked by her and into the TARDIS. "The door wasn't locked." He answered simply._

_"So you just let yourself in?" She asked incredulously, following him inside._

_His lips pulled into a smirk as he shot her a glance over his shoulder. "That's what you were trying to do with the TARDIS a moment ago, no?"_

_He knew he had her then, whoever she was, even if she did not. "That's different. You're here to pick me up and take me away. That requires me to enter the TARDIS, but not you the house." She crossed her arms in front of her chest and leaned her hip against the console, a self-satisfied smile on her lips. He began fiddling with buttons and levers on the console._

_"Why would I be here to pick you up if I don't know who you are?" He thought, but he made no effort to vocalize the question. He speculated that the attempt would be as futile as the previous ones. But he did not remain silent either. The words he did speak did so by their own volition however, just as the others before and, he suspected, as the ones that would follow. "It does if I have to wait around for you for two hours."_

_"Again with the two hours! If waiting around for me bothers you so much, why didn't you tell me you were here? I didn't know!"_

_"You ought to have. I'm here every Wednesday at ten o'clock." He said. When she didn't respond, he continued. Though the words were spoken more tenderly than the last, they also carried more weight. "Listen, Clara. If I didn't want to wait around for you, I wouldn't."_

_She blushed and smiled at him, her gaze flickering from her boots to his eyes. She gave no reply to his revelation, unable to think of a worthy one, so she changed the subject instead. "So, where to, Chin Boy?"_

_Pink suffused his cheeks. "Oi! What's wrong with my chin?"_

_She chuckled, causing the pink to darken to crimson. "Nothing! Nothing's wrong with it at all! It's a very fine chin, and I'm sure it serves its purpose…That is, if its purpose is to pull someone's eye out." There was a glint in her eye, a gentle lilt in her voice as she teased him; she was enjoying this too much._

_He pointed to the TARDIS doors. "Right. Out you go, Oswald!"_

_She feigned shock and disbelief. "You're kicking me out? So soon? You wound me Doctor, truly." She laughed at herself, and he found himself joining in._

_And then he replied, grabbing her hand and pulling her towards the doors after him. "Not kicking you out – taking you out. I'm coming with you. We've arrived!"_

He knew that it was just a dream, that he wouldn't see Clara again – that she didn't exist. But it had been a long while since he had felt anything but despair and self-pity, and this simple dream had sparked something inside of him that he hadn't felt in ages. And he couldn't help but think that that signified its importance.

He never dreamt of people he didn't know. His dreams usually featured Amy, Rose, or his family on Gallifrey. People he had loved and failed and lost. They were dreams of times passed and memories made and places visited and saved. Sweet dreams that he damned because they made waking up all the more difficult.

But this dream was different. It wasn't a memory of his because Clara had never been, and would not be, a part of his life. And waking up from it hadn't left him in sufferance – it had excited him. But for the life of him he couldn't figure out why it did. He had always loved a good mystery, and had of course always had a penchant for solving them, so for the questions he had tried to ask but had remained unanswered to be what he found so enthralling made perfect sense. And yet he remained unconvinced. He couldn't help but think that it was simply _the girl_ whom he found intriguing, not the events of the dream. Or perhaps they went hand-in-hand. His interest in her was amplified by the mystery in which she was surrounded.

Thoughts of her overwhelmed him, and the fact that they did left him in endlessly puzzled. For such a dull dream to evoke such a reaction from a man who had spent the greatest part of his life amongst something as miraculous and vibrant as the stars was ludicrous - impossible even. And yet it had done so.

She had done so.

**...**

_A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Thank you so very much to all of you who followed and favorited. I appreciate your support more than I can say. I hope you enjoy chapter two! _

**... **

He dreamt about her again when he next slept too, and then again, and again…

Sometimes the dreams featured solely her, others her parents, and some the Maitlands – the family she cared for. But they were all about her, and he realized a few weeks after the first dream, that he was eager to sleep every night, not only because it meant escaping reality, but because it meant seeing Clara Oswald.

She had become his obsession.

The dreams weren't enough. Even when he was conscious, she occupied every corner of his mind and he didn't even bother trying to stop her from doing so. She was a welcomed distraction, one he longed for despite his better judgment, and he wanted nothing more than to be filled with her, surrounded by her. But of course, the latter wasn't possible. She wasn't real, and he was all too painfully aware of that.

So he wrote.

He searched his mind for all the dreams he had had of her, all the dreams he continued to have of her, and configured them to create a story -her story- which he spent every waking moment writing. He wrote using an old typewriter he had found in the library, as his typing was faster than his writing, and he needed his hands to be able to keep up with the rate at which his mind was moving as he wrote a story about a girl who could never exist. Something written in pencil could easily be erased, but the ink from the typewriter was permanent and the fact that it couldn't be changed once written made it seem all the more _real._

And after all, every madman needs his madness; the Doctor had found his.

_Clara Oswald. Twenty-six years old. Born and raised in Lancashire. She has long, dark hair and beautiful defined features, the most striking of which being her large brown eyes. She's terribly short, but what she lacks in height she makes up in spirit. She's the Maitland family's governess, having taken care of Artie and Angie ever since their mother died in 2012. Clara can relate to the Maitland children, having lost her own parents in 2005. She wants nothing more than to travel, and to successfully bake a soufflé. She's bossy and stubborn in a way that can't be described as anything but endearing…  
_  
He realized, too late, that he had fallen in love with a girl from his dreams. Had he understood what was happening before it had happened, he may have avoided sleep and writing, but like most situations he found himself in, he never understood how far in he'd gotten until it was too late. He didn't realize that he was falling in love with her until he _was_ in love with her. He'd dream of her, a smile always accompanying his slumber, and upon waking up, would remember that she didn't exist, that the dreams he had of her were just that. So, in order to rectify the situation as best he could, he began making himself a more prominent character in her story.  
_  
Clara began traveling with the Doctor in 2013, after he stopped the Great Intelligence from uploading her to a data-cloud through the wifi. From then on, they traveled together every Wednesday -her day off- to different planets, galaxies, and time periods...  
_  
The Doctor had himself once admitted to being the dreamer of far-flung dreams, but he had always managed to remain on the correct side of the line that separated what was real and possible from what was not. He knew that there were things that even he, the last of the time lords, could not do, rules to which he must abide regardless of the sufferance that compliance brought him. But now he was deluding himself. That he had allowed himself so become dependent on fiction when he had lived his whole life preserving the integrity of reality angered and scared him, and he struggled to come to terms with the fact that he was to blame for all of this.

He needed distraction from the Ponds so badly that he allowed his dreams to become more crucial than reality. But still he wrote. No matter how many times he tried locking the typewriter away, it never took long for him to come back to it, and he would then write more rapidly and frantically than usual as if to make up for the time he hadn't been writing.

It was after such an occurrence that strange things began to happen, things that even the Doctor couldn't explain. He was in the kitchen for tea and Jammie Dodgers when he noticed a red satchel in a chair by the table. He'd seen it before, that much he knew. But where or when he had seen it was as much if a mystery to him as the fact that it was there at all. Nobody other than himself had set foot onboard the TARDIS since Manhattan. He could have believed that it was Amy's had it not been for the fact that the Doctor had no recollection of her ever carrying any type of purse, and he had been in the kitchen too many times since he lost her to have just noticed it. He couldn't make sense of it, and trying to figure out where it had come from wasn't doing anything other than keeping him from writing, so he left it where it was and, perplexed, made his way over to his typewriter.

A similar thing occurred following day, with a leather jacket he found by the TARDIS's console. It couldn't have fit Amy, it was too small, and he certainly would have noticed it before then had it belonged to her. Added to which, it felt warm, as if recently worn, and the scent of life clung to it. But he was alone on board the TARDIS, of that he was certain. He was not a stranger to solitude – he could sense it, and he felt as lonely as ever. There must have been a logical explanation for the jacket's presence and warmth, he knew, but he couldn't be bothered to discover it, so he hung it up in a closet and tried his best to not think of it.

He woke up at his desk the next morning, with a stiff neck and sore back, and he reluctantly distanced himself from the typewriter to make his way to the TARDIS doors. It had been a long while since he'd gone outside, and he was in need of fresh air. Perhaps this was why he had seen the jacket and the satchel – they were hallucinations brought on by excessive seclusion and confinement.

"I missed you in bed last night." The words pulled him out of his thoughts, and he tensed, fingers clenching around the door handle. The voice that had spoken came from behind him. It was one that he was familiar with, yet something about it sent chills down his spine. He braced himself and released his grip on the door handle as he cautiously turned himself around.

His breath caught short.

It was her. _Clara._


	3. Chapter 3

She was leaning against the railing at the top of the steps that separated the console room from the halls of the TARDIS, a mug of tea in hand. She wore nothing but a pair of knickers and his favorite button down shirt – the light pink one, and her long brown hair fell in soft ringlets around her face. "Was there something wrong with the TARDIS? Did you fix her?" She asked, as she made her way down the steps. He stared at her for a few moments, his mouth opening and closing uselessly as he tried to ask questions but couldn't decide which one to begin with. She approached him, "Doctor, are you alright?"

"Yes. Yes, fine. I was…well, you see, I….I forgot the sonic! I was going to go out, but I forget my sonic, so, I'll just be going to my bedroom now to fetch it." He began moving in the direction she had come from, signaling that the conversation, brief as it had been, was over, but she side-stepped in his way.

"I don't believe you. You wouldn't even think of leaving the TARDIS without your screwdriver. It's on you right now, inside your jacket. We both know it." She raised an eyebrow questioningly, "And why have you gone back to calling it your bedroom?"

The Doctor's bow tie suddenly seemed too tight, the enormous room too stuffy. "Oh…right… erm…our room. I thought I left it in our room." Red flooded to his face. "But you're right, as usual. It's right here," he said, pulling it out, and popping it back in the pocket as if to emphasize the statement's truth. "But I did forget something. Something important, so I'll just go-"

He tried to leave again, but with the same result. "Could that something be me, by any chance?" She asked cheekily, standing on her toes to plant her lips on the corner of his mouth. He could taste tea on her lips.

The Doctor was aware that his current incarnation usually responded to uncomfortable situations rather awkwardly. How poorly he dealt with this one however, was astounding. He flinched away immediately, gaped at her for a moment, an expression of shock and horror characterizing his features, before running around the console, up the steps, through the halls, and locking himself in the library.

He did his best to regain his composure, taking deep laborious breaths and trying to think rationally. He attempted to explain what had happened by convincing himself that he was dreaming, but he couldn't quite make himself believe it. Had it been a dream, he would have been delighted to be kissed by Clara. And yet he knew she couldn't be real. He had been hurt far too many times to believe in miracles. So the only possible conclusion was that he was going mad.

Even more mad.

She was a hallucination, like the satchel and the jacket "It's one thing to fall in love with a girl who exists on paper, but it's a whole other one to see her in your TARDIS." He mumbled, "That's it, Doctor, you're finished. You've really lost it now."

And yet he couldn't quite make himself believe that either. Because he hadn't just seen her. He had heard her, smelled her, tasted her, and had felt her lips on his. _But that's not possible._ He thought. _She's not possible._

**_..._**

Some time later, (the precise number of minutes or hours had escaped him) the Doctor crept out of the library and made his way to the console. He looked around carefully, sighing in relief when he realized that she wasn't there. She didn't exist. He didn't know how to explain what had happened, but all he cared about was leaving his damn machine long enough to stop seeing things. He reached for the door handle. "Are you trying to leave again?"

Hearing her made him cringe. "I'm just going out for a walk." He hoped she hadn't heard his voice tremble. And he also hoped he wasn't beginning to care about whether or not a mirage could hear his voice tremble. Because she wasn't real.

She couldn't be.

"Can I come?" She asked.

He heard her walk down the steps towards him, but dared not turn to look at her. "No."

"Why not?"

"Because."

"Please?"

He felt her place a palm on his shoulder and disguised his shudder by turning around to face her. She had changed, and was wearing a patterned blue dress with black stockings, as well as the leather jacket and the red satchel he had seen the two previous days. He realized then why they had looked so familiar. His stomach churned. "Afraid not."

"You promised you'd take me out for chips today."

"Did I?" he asked nervously, "I don't remember that."

"I wish you'd tell me what the matter is, Doctor."

"Nothing. Nothing's the matter. Why should anything be the matter?"

"It's just that you're acting strange." Her hands reached up and fixed his crooked bow tie, "And…you've never forgotten about our Wednesdays."

There was no escape from this turn in the conversation, he knew, and the disappointment in her voice was nearly palpable, so the Doctor forced a smile and feigned enthusiasm. "Well then, why don't we get you something to eat?"

She smiled tightly, still unsure of his behavior. "Okay."

"And when shall we travel to?"

Her false smile fell. "We'll stay where we are. I'm going to walk and pick Artie up from his mate's house afterwards; we talked about that too…"

"Of course we did," he said quickly, "Yes, you're right." He opened the TARDIS door for her, and tried to stop his voice from shaking. "After you."


	4. Chapter 4

They walked in near silence, it only being broken by their footfalls and Clara's passing remarks about the weather and various other subjects the Doctor wasn't particularly paying attention to. She had reached for his hand almost immediately after having stepped out of the TARDIS, and although the Doctor had flinched rather violently at the contact, he hadn't pulled his hand away. Because, whether she existed only in his head or not, Clara Oswald was the woman he loved, and he didn't think he would have been able to stand the look of betrayal that would've appeared on her face if he had. Added to which, Clara, despite her legs being half as long as the Doctor's, was a few steps ahead of him, dragging him along behind her to an unknown destination. He was thankful for this, truthfully, as it saved him from having to tell her that he didn't know what chippy she wanted to go to.

He didn't have to wait long to know though, as they hadn't even walked four blocks when Clara stopped walking and joined a queue on the street.

She let go of his hand -which didn't come as much of a surprise to the Doctor, as he wouldn't have wanted to hold the hand of someone who was sweating as much as he was, either- and he sighed, his tense shoulder muscles relaxing significantly. His relief was short-lived, however, as Clara cleared her throat and it occurred to him that if she was about to address him properly, he would have to reply, something he wasn't too keen on doing as there were others in line and he didn't fancy the idea of them hearing him speak to empty air.

"I've been meaning to ask, why did you put my jacket in a closet? You know I keep my clothes in the drawers in our bedroom. I spent ages looking for it."

Wanting to keep his answer short and brisk, he responded with "I'm sorry. I forgot." and bit his tongue as soon as the last two words left his mouth.

"You forgot that too, did you?" The look he had been dreading to see again had resurfaced. "Tell me, Doctor. Why have you been forgetting things all morning?"

He opened his mouth to answer, his mind scrambling to find a reasonable lie, but he noticed that there was no more line in front of then, and took the opportunity to avoid answering. He stepped up to the counter, ordered, and flashed his psychic paper -it displayed a coupon good for a free order of chips- and then shoved his hands in his pockets and rocked on his heels as he waited for them. Clara stood by him in silence, perhaps understanding that this was a conversation the Doctor wanted to have somewhere else, if at all.

"Here you go," the man behind the counter pushed their basket of chips and two forks towards them.

"Why two?" asked the Doctor. Clara and the man looked equally confused.

"Well you can't share a plate of food with only one fork, can you?"

"Who says I'm sharing?"

"Is she not eating anything?" he asked, motioning to Clara.

The Doctor ceased breathing. He spoke slowly, "You mean you can see her?"

"Yes I can see her. What's that supposed to mean?"

"Doctor, you're scaring-"

But the Doctor wasn't listening. He turned to the woman in line behind him, "Can you see her?" he asked, pointing to Clara.

"Of course I can. What-"

He didn't bother listening to anything else she had to say. He turned to Clara, an explanation already on his lips, but halted when he noticed the tears pooling in her eyes. "Doctor, what is wrong with you?"

"Clara, I-" He stepped forward to grab her hand, but she backed away.

"No. Stay away from me."

"Let me expl-" But he didn't have time to finish. He had received a cup full of iced water in his face -evidently Clara had taken it from the hands of someone nearby- and fled.The Doctor barely noticed the stares of those around him, nor did he react to his soaked-through shirt, he just stared at Clara's retreating figure, unbelieving and, for the first time in centuries, euphoric. "Oh my God," he whispered, "She's real. She's actually, properly real." And with that, he ran down the street after her.

It didn't take long for him to catch up, as his long legs carried him further than her shorter ones did, and he was soon close enough to call out to her. "Clara!"

"Leave me alone!" She nearly ran into someone, causing her to stop momentarily, and giving the Doctor enough time to grab her wrist. "Get off!"

"Clara, I-"

"I told you to leave me alone!"

"Clara, please, let me explain."

"You stay away. You've been acting so strange all morning, and I-" Without warning, the Doctor picked Clara up, threw her over a shoulder, and, ignoring her shouting and protests, ran the few remaining blocks until they reached the TARDIS. He put her down, gently, trapping her between himself and one of its sides. "What are you doing? Doctor, let me go right now, or I swear I'll-" She struggled to get away from him, despite how light his hold on her was.

"Shh. Clara, please don't fight me. Please. There is a lot that is new here, more than I can tell you, and I'm having trouble processing it all, okay?" He held her face with both of his hands, wiping the tears away from her cheeks with his thumbs, only for them to be replaced by fresh ones.

She choked back a sob. "Then talk to me about it, don't pretend like I don't exist! What is wrong with you?"

"I don't know, and I'm sorry. I'm just having a hard time wrapping my head around the reality of this situation. You're here. And it just seems…impossible." She gave a small smile, her resolve of anger having been weakened by the sincerity or The Doctor's words and his big sad eyes. "What?" he asked.

"Just kiss me, Chin Boy." He froze momentarily, panic visible in his eyes for a fleeting moment before a breath he hadn't known he had been holding left his trembling lips. It was everything he wanted, truly, and perhaps it was because of this that he was reluctant to give in to his desire. Now that he had accepted her as real, he feared that he would lean in to kiss her only to find that she wasn't there at all. It would be a fine jape for the universe to play on him, as it so loved to see him suffer. But he tilted her chin up anyways, hesitating once again before he captured her lips with his.

He sighed in contentment and relief at the pressure he had expected to be deprived of.

The taste of Clara's tears mingled with what the Doctor assumed was just the naturally intoxicating taste of her tongue, and his hands roamed her curves before settling on her waist.

It took little time for their kissing to become more heated and fervent, their breaths more rapid and shallow.

"Should we go inside?" He asked, as he trailed kisses down the length of her neck.

"It's nearly time for me to pick up Artie." She responded unconvincingly.

He smirked. "Well, luckily for us, we have a time machine." And so, snapping his fingers to open the doors, he pulled her into the TARDIS after him, his last coherent thought being that perhaps, on occasion, the universe wasn't so cruel after all.


	5. Chapter 5

_A/N: I do not have the words to express the extent to which I am sorry about how long it took for me to post this chapter. School has recently started for me, so these past few weeks have been hectic. Many thanks to Cls2011 for having edited not only this chapter, but the four previous ones as well. _

_Enjoy! And please do let me know what you think, as reviews are greatly appreciated. I would also love to hear your opinions on "Deep Breath," if you're willing to share them. _

**...**

When the Doctor woke, it was to an unfamiliar but not at all unwelcome pressure against his bare chest.

_Clara._

A smile played against his lips as he took her in. She was real. Breathtakingly beautiful, lying in his bed, and _real._ If he were to be honest with himself, a part of him had believed that upon waking up, she would have been gone, that the events of the morning would have had all been in his head. But no, she was really there, nestled into his side, her arm draped across his middle, their legs tangled together, and her head tucked beneath his chin. Her long brown hair was sprawled across the pillow behind her, save for one tendril that lay against her face, fluttering slightly every time she exhaled.

And the Doctor knew he shouldn't move it. He knew that if he did he would wake her up. And it fell so naturally against her skin and so deliciously in contrast to its paleness that he was sure that to move it would be considered sin. But he was aching to touch her face, and when an opportunity to do so was presented in such a way he felt as though not taking advantage of it would be equally unforgivable. And so, just that once, the Doctor decided to indulge himself.

He reached his hand up and gently tucked the strand behind her ear, brushing his thumb against her cheek while doing so. As expected, Clara stirred, and she opened her eyes with deliberate effort. "Hello, love," he said, placing a kiss on her forehead. But the best Clara could do in her sleepy state was to mumble something completely incomprehensible into the Doctor's chest in response. "Sorry, Clara, I didn't quite catch that," he teased.

She groaned and shifted so that she was on her back and turned her face to look at him properly. "What time is it?"

He propped himself up on one elbow and grinned at her, "That's quite a funny question to ask in a Time Machine." He leaned towards her for a kiss, but she turned her face away so that his lips met her cheek.

"Doctor…." she warned, but she sounded more amused than she did angry. "I meant what I said earlier. I really should pick up Artie. You need to take us back a few hours."

"But Clara…" he whined, "it's a-"

"Yes, I know. It's a Time Machine. You can take me to a thousand planets and bring me back home in time for tea," she smiled at him as she brushed his disheveled hair out of his eyes, "It may have only been one afternoon for the Maitlands, but I've been with you for three weeks. It's time for me to go back now."

"Can I do anything to convince you to stay?" He tried to kiss her again, but Clara slipped out of the bed before he could.

"I am absolutely certain that you are capable of convincing me to stay. That's precisely why you aren't allowed to kiss me, Chin Boy." The Doctor looked at her pitifully, "Don't try that." She chuckled, "All you have to do is get back in your snogbox after you drop me off and you're already at next week. I'm the one who has to wait."

The Doctor experienced a sudden surge of jealousy. What she said was true of course. In theory, he wouldn't have time to miss her. But that didn't mean he wouldn't. If there was one thing that the Doctor had understood from their time together - not the time in his dreams or his writings, the time he had spent with the real Clara – was that she was as crucial to him as both of his hearts, and he very much doubted that he could survive any period of time without her, however short that period of time might be. And so he envied and resented the Maitlands for taking her from him, even though he knew that he only had himself to blame. He could have easily omitted them from his story, despite them being in his dreams. He could have simply written that Clara lived with him in the TARDIS, not that she only traveled with him on Wednesdays.

But then again, he hadn't known that she would materialize.

He was pulled out of his thoughts due to the sound of a drawer slamming shut. Clara had already gotten dressed and was staring at him expectantly. "You know, Doctor, the longer it takes for you to get up, the longer you'll have to wait to see me next Wednesday." He sighed and got out of bed, knowing that if he argued he would just be fighting a losing battle. Why had he made her so damn stubborn? He bent over to pick up his pants and trousers, but was stopped by the sound of Clara clearing her throat. "You don't need to put clothes on," she said with a smirk, "I'd be ridding you of them as soon as I set foot back into the TARDIS next week. You'll be able to have your way with me much sooner if we only need to take my clothes off." And with that, she turned on her heel and walked to the console room, allowing the Doctor to admire the sway of her hips for a few moments before he scampered after her.

**...**

It was only once Clara was gone and had shut the TARDIS doors behind her that the Doctor allowed himself to reflect upon all that had happened. He just couldn't wrap his head around it. He was brilliant, but how he managed to manifest a woman with his mind and some paper was beyond even his understanding. And he began to wonder, if she consisted of everything he had written so far, if she had the memories she had because he had written them as such and if she behaved the way she did because that was how he wrote her, would she change if he wrote more? He could write that she changed her mind and decided to live with him permanently and see if she then would actually do so. The typewriter was only in the other room after all...

No.

She consumed him - overwhelmed him. But he understood that what she meant to him, he might not mean to her. Just because she was now undoubtedly the centre of his universe didn't mean he was the centre of hers. There was no way that all of Clara's life so far had been condensed into the pages he had written.

Fragments. That was all he knew of her life. Moments interlocked in ways far more complex than are fathomable, when together, make up someone's life, and he had only been exposed to a handful of hers. He knew only fragments of her life and therefore only fragments of her. He may have dreamed her -written her- but now that she had taken form she was much greater than the few pages he had written. Clara had a life, a daily routine. It wouldn't be fair of the Doctor to take all those things away from her just for his benefit. He didn't think he would be able to live with himself if he manipulated or controlled her.

And so, he figured he could always just change her appearance. Give her longer legs or shorter hair, just to see if he still had power over her now that she had developed into a living thing, but he dismissed that idea just as quickly as the first one. She was perfect. Nothing about her needed changing. Nothing it all. Although he desperately wanted to, it didn't matter that he didn't yet understand her origins. She was real and she was his and he loved her. He couldn't possibly write about her again her now that she existed.

Well, not unless it was absolutely necessary…


	6. Chapter 6

_I am, once again, terribly sorry about how long it took me to post this chapter. Things have been rather chaotic lately, and I've not had a spare moment until now. Thank you for bearing with me. I'll let you all in on a little secret, as you've been so patient with me. The next four or five chapters will probably consist entirely of fluff. But then the plot will thicken, and things might start to get a little...painful. _

_ Until then, enjoy the relatively stress-free chapters. _

_This chapter doesn't have much plot, I'm afraid. It's something of a bridge chapter intended to show that the Doctor is gradually getting comfortable with the idea of Clara being real. It also delves into Clara's thoughts a little, so this chapter provides more than one perspective on the story. I hope you enjoy it; I had quite a lot of fun writing this one. Reviews would be greatly appreciated. _

**_…_**

Clara never got enough sleep when she was onboard the TARDIS, despite usually being in the bedroom and despite the physical exhaustion that inevitably went along with being there. She and the Doctor's bed was, without exception, her favorite place in the entirety of the universe and she was utterly convinced that she could travel the galaxies for millennia, explore every moment, witness every happening, and never find a place she would rather be. The bedroom was an architectural impossibility, much like the TARDIS itself, and it left Clara in a state of perpetual awe and disbelief.

It was shaped like a quartered sphere. The only wall consisted of immense wooden bookshelves which served as a home to the books the Doctor deemed too precious to be kept in the library: journals that had accumulated over the years, written by himself and his companions, ancient charts and maps, and the only remaining Gallifreyan books in the universe. The floor was ashen wood, same as that the bookshelves were made of, and it was bare and uncovered, save for a chest of drawers and a circular bed in the centre of the room. And finally – most spectacularly – where most rooms had a ceiling and three other walls, this one had a glass dome through which Clara saw all the things she couldn't while walking along the streets of a highly technologically advanced alien city or as she witnessed major events in Earth's history.

That's not to say she didn't love the traveling, for she did, but the things that bedroom allowed her to see were incomparable in beauty. Regardless of how drained and breathless she and the Doctor's exploits rendered her, she always found herself giving up sleep in favor of the stars. Tangled in sheets and tangled in her Doctor, she watched in endless fascination as they presented themselves to her. They were so bright, so brilliant in their variant colors and sizes, that she sometimes forgot that they couldn't be touched. Her arm would reach up, her fingers would grope at the air in her attempts to grab one and, of course, return to her side empty.

The Doctor slept even less than Clara. Because she was right. Nothing was more beautiful than the sights available for inspection in that bedroom. But whereas she meant the galaxy, he of course meant her. She was riveting. He stared at her in shameless enthrallment, the way her lips parted slightly when she gasped and how she admired the stars in brown-eyed wonder, and they both tried to unravel the mysteries before them. She, that of the origins of the infinite planets and stars that seemingly enveloped her, and he of the impossible girl who shared his bed.

She was, for a lack of words, exquisite. Nebulas painted and kissed her body in blues, pinks, and mauves, while the billions of stars above them made her shimmer, reflecting off the thin layer of sweat in which she was covered.

And he would read to her, by starlight, from whichever of the books of Gallifreyan poetry she chose, first in the language and then translating them for her. He hesitates one night when asked if he would teach her how to write it, and then surprises himself by nodding. She grins, rests her head on his chest, and listens to the sound of his voice and his twin hearts' beating. And then he isn't surprised at all. Because he knows that he will never deny her anything. There are no limits to the things he would do for her, this girl who saved him from himself. But even then, those limitless things couldn't possibly be enough.

Not for his Clara.

Never for his Clara.

His hearts - the stars, they are nothing, and so he understands why he is so willing to give himself to her, brazenly and unabashedly; he is all that he can give. The things she is worthy of don't exist, and he chuckles lightly as he realizes how fitting his predicament is; his Impossible Girl is deserving of impossible things.


	7. Chapter 7

_A/N: Here you go, chapter 7! I am, as ever, terribly sorry about the wait. I really wanted to get this chapter posted as soon as I reasonably could, because it's already been about three weeks since my last update, so I didn't bother with having anybody proofread this chapter. I hope you'll forgive any mistakes. Enjoy, and please review! _

**...**

"I didn't know it was possible for anyone to be this cold." Clara said, her breath visible in the air is she spoke. Had the remark been spoken under any other circumstance, the Doctor may have believed it to be casual, a mere observation, but given what had just occurred, he knew Clara had spoken it with the intention of offending him. And although her reason for wanting to do so wasn't ill-founded, he refused to let her words faze him. He simply pushed on towards their destination and tossed a "We've nearly reached the TARDIS." over his shoulder.

Clara scoffed. "Is that supposed to be reassuring? Judging by what just happened, I'm willing to bet that your time machine isn't going to be too pleased when she realizes that she wasn't successful in her attempt to dispose of me. And to rectify the situation, I think she'll have another go!"

The Doctor unsuccessfully attempted to suppress an eye-roll. "Clara, you're delusional. The TARDIS didn't try to kill you."

"I'm not convinced. But_ if_ that wasn't an attempt on my life, she's going to try soon. She hates me."

"The TARDIS doesn't hate you!"

"What else could possible justify what she just did to me?"

"It wasn't her fault!"

He knew immediately that he had essentially just revealed himself as the culprit, and the brief pause that followed his revelation scared the Doctor endlessly. Clara usually vocalized anger, lashing out in quick, painful blows that resulted in the Doctor apologizing profusely within seconds of having said or done whatever it was that had offended her. But she seemed to be internalizing her anger this time, and the Doctor stopped in his ascent, taking a deep breath as Clara released a shaking one.

"What?"

He turned to face her, cautiously. "It wasn't the TARDIS's fault." He repeated, an overwhelming sense of trepidation paralyzing him at the sight of Clara's hardened features.

"I heard you the first time," was the curt reply. "So what you're saying is," another pause, "you did this?" Her voice trembled in her attempt to conceal her fury.

The Doctor swallowed nervously, acknowledging that he probably hadn't dealt with the situation as well as he could have, and that he had put himself in a dangerous place. He now had to tread lightly, and choose his words carefully. This was perilous ground. "Please, Clara, not here. If we walk faster then we'll get to the TARDIS, and then-"

"Oh, I should walk faster, should I?" Her tone was dry and spiteful. "Thank you, Doctor; the thought hadn't crossed my mind." He opened his mouth, ready to defend himself, but Clara went on. "But damn it, I'm wearing heels, and that's going to make scaling this enormous dune rather difficult. Might I remind you that if it hadn't been for your incompetence, I wouldn't be in a situation that required me to do any walking?" She shivered violently upon finishing, her attempt to spurn him no longer a distraction from the brutal gusts of wind that whipped her body. Unbeknownst to Clara however, her low tolerance for cold succeeded in doing what her words did not; shrouding the Doctor with guilt.

The fear that had a moment before trumped all of his other emotions was instantaneously replaced with a raw accusatory disgust with himself. He had neglected her, his Clara. His wonderfully brave, impossibly strong Clara stood before him, tiny and shivering and looking uncharacteristically fragile. Her hair had fallen out of the elegant bun she had styled it in, leaving it damp and limp around her face. Her dress was torn; the fabric ruined and weighed down due to sand and algae and seawater. His eyes softened, and he did what he knew he should have done twenty minutes beforehand; he shrugged his tweed jacket off of his shoulders and placed it on hers.

She swatted his hands away, "No-"

"Clara, please-"

"Don't you think you've done enough?!" The ferocity of her voice was incongruous given how delicate she looked. "Leave me alone. I don't need your help." She stared at him, her breaths ragged and irregular as she struggled to compose herself.

The Doctor remained silent for a while, weighing his options and deciding how to best approach the subject so as to not further anger Clara. "Please, just hear me out." She nodded stiffly. "I know you're angry. I get it, I do. You have every right to be. And we can argue later, once we're safe and in the TARDIS, but please, not now. You're cold and wet and tired and I can't just stand by idly and let you freeze. I know I don't deserve it, love, but if you won't let me help you, can you at least help me? Do me a favor, put the jacket on. I couldn't live with myself if you fell ill and died because I didn't take care of you properly."

She hesitated, then took the garment from him, put it on silently, and continued on her way. The Doctor followed her, reaching for her hand as they journeyed to the TARDIS sat at the dune's peak. "I still haven't forgiven you." She said, looking down at where their fingers were interlocked, but she made no attempt to pull her hand away.

"I know." His lips twitched into a small smile, "And I still haven't apologized."

**…**

Once the TARDIS doors had shut behind them, however, their truce ended.

"So," Clara started, "are you going to tell me what the hell happened?"

The Doctor moved around the console, flipping switches and typing coordinates. "You should take a hot bath, put fresh clothes on. You'll catch death if you don't."

"Nice try, Chin. I won't let you change the subject."

He looked at her earnestly, "We can talk after. I don't want you getting sick."

"Speak quickly, then. I'm not leaving until you explain." She leaned against the console, arms crossed and a perfectly sculpted eyebrow raised quizzically. But the Doctor refused to be so easily deterred. He said nothing, just continued working with the console, so she prompted, "You promised me dancing. No danger, no scary aliens. Dancing."

He looked up to meet her eyes, briefly, and then continued with his actions. "There weren't any scary aliens. And we can still go, if you'd like."

Clara's mouth fell open and she stared at the Doctor, incredulous. "Do I look like I'm in the mood for dancing?"

He ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. "Well if you aren't, why does it matter what I promised?"

If Clara had been angry beforehand, she was now absolutely livid. True to her M.O., words flew out of her mouth, rapid and cutting. "It matters because I'm cold and miserable and we were supposed to be on a date. It matters because I spent hours getting ready – to impress you – and have nothing to show for it. It matters because it took me ages to convince you to take me dancing and now we aren't even going. It matters because instead of stepping out of the TARDIS and finding myself on the level ground of a ballroom, I stepped out, my heel sunk into sand, I lost balance, fell, and rolled down an astoundingly steep dune into a bloody freezing sea, all because you don't know how to pilot your stupid machine. And it matters because you don't seem to give a damn!" Clara knew, despite her anger, that she was overreacting. In the grand scheme of things, a ruined dress, a few bruises, wet hair, and a possible cold were not cause for alarm. Really, when it came to her adventures with the Doctor, she would usually count herself lucky for having escaped as unscathed as she was. But the Doctor hadn't promised her an adventure; he had promised her a date. And as far as dates went, she was certain that this one qualified as a disaster. So, in truth, she didn't think a little anger was unjustified.

The Doctor barely had the time to sigh and begin saying "I didn't mean-" before Clara cut him off and went on.

"I understand getting the wrong year, or landing somewhere unexpected because the TARDIS sent you there to prevent disaster, but that's not what happened, is it? Because there wasn't anyone to save! You just messed up!"

The Doctor rubbed his temple. "Exactly! I made a mistake, that's what people do, don't they?"

"You're not people."

He looked at her helplessly. "What do you want me to do?"

"Apologizing might be a good place to start." She said.

He sighed and hung his head. "I'm sorry. Of course I'm sorry. I wanted you to have a nice time, Clara. I didn't mean for everything to go terribly wrong."

"Well then why did it?" She implored.

"The dress, Clara."

"Are you quite finished? I told you that I'm not going to leave until you tell me what happened."

"I was entering the coordinates of the ballroom when you walked in. I got distracted, typed them in wrong."

"Don't make this my fault!"

The Doctor's eyes went dark, filled with something Clara knew she had seen before but couldn't quite place, and he took several brisk steps in her direction, stopping when they were only separated by a few centimeters. "You bring out the worst in me, Clara Oswald." His voice had taken a deep, familiar tone, and she recognized the emotion that characterized his features for what it was; lust.

"What do you mean?" She melted under the intensity of his gaze, the words she had intended to sound strong stumbling out uncertainly and so faintly she was surprised he heard them at all.

"When you have lived as long as I have, Clara, when you have done the things I've done, burying your emotions is the only thing that allows you to go on. And I have had centuries of practice, so I credit myself with being rather good at keeping myself under control. But you waltzed in here in that too-tight dress that leaves the entirety of your back exposed and…and you know how I react when you wear red." His tongue shot out to moisten his lips. "You looked exquisite –as you always do- but all I could think of was getting you out of it." His breath was hot and tantalizing on Clara's cold flesh. And then his lips found her neck, and she released an involuntary whimper, gripping the side of the console for support.

"Oh." Was all she could manage.

"I lost focus, typed the coordinates incorrectly." He nudged one of the straps of her dress with his nose, edging it off her shoulder, lips grazing her collarbone in the process.

And Clara wanted so desperately to encourage him. She longed to wrap her legs around his waist and tangle her fingers in his hair and rid him of that ridiculous bow tie. But she couldn't help but think that there was something about having the upper hand and making the Doctor plead and wait that sounded rather appealing. So when her hands traveled up his chest and reached his lapels, instead of pulling him towards her, she pushed him away.

Clara bit the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing at his surprised expression. "I'm terribly flattered, Doctor, but I think I should take that bath now." She smirked, "And no, you cannot join me. You can, however, take me home to the Maitlands'." And with that she made her way out of the console room, leaving the Doctor to stare at the space she had just occupied, mouth agape.

"You can't be cross with me forever!" The Doctor called after her, cursing himself when he realized that what he had intended to be a statement had come out as a desperate plea.


End file.
